whatofthewarts | (no subject)

(no subject)

Irene Adler had many homes, and many more hiding places, but months after her death Sherlock was certain he'd found at least half those in the country. She had her many stolen jewels tucked away all over the apartment, and it took him the better part of the afternoon to dig them all out of their hidey holes. When he had them in his pockets, he went searching for someone else entirely.

Although they had their obvious differences, given their different environments, Sherlock found it was remarkably easy to track himself down.

"Making headway, I presume?"

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He screams, arches, and comes hard, dotting his chest, his throat, with white.

"As I thought. Vegetable emollient works perfect well as this sort of lubricant."

For anything more strenuous, he's...really not sure.

"Do you want me to roll over?"

He offers, trembling, trying to do so.

He helps, this time with a hand instead of his foot. He takes a second to consider how much to use, how to apply it.

"Remember, breathe."

It's always good advice.

"It's fine."

Up onto his hands and knees, head lifting. Posture disciplined.

"I thought you said you had never done this before."

Admiring, touching him. He won't keep him waiting long; he's decided to slick Sherlock, then himself.

He has to estimate how much to use, and though he feels he's using this side of too much, it's not going to be as slick as he thinks.

"I've never. But I got off on having the bones in one foot broken, once. I'll be fine."

Lowering his head, a touch.

"Oh."

Holmes can handle a good deal of pain, himself, and he thoroughly enjoys fighting for money. But getting off on it the way Sherlock implies...that's another thing entirely. It appeals to him, as someone who likes to be the one pushing the buttons.

When they're both slicked, he presses into him. He's not slow or careful, but the sheer tightness makes him halt and shudder almost as much as if he'd been conscientious.

It hurts. It really, really hurts and his head hands down between his shoulders, legs parting as though he can widen the stance of his hips and make room for him, forcing himself to breathe throughout, to feel to dry drag against him.

"Is there more of the-?"

Whisper soft.

"Yes- excellent."

He pulls all the way out, and this time uses so much of it that he's sure most people would find it comical.

"All right...one more attempt."

He nods, sinking down further, cheek hitting the stone floor again- a momentary, masochistic little means of grounding himself, fighting away terror and coming back to sensation. It also arches him obscenely.

He slides into him much more easily this time, and Holmes momentarily finds himself wondering what the exact requirements for lube are.

But then everything is tight, and primal.

He keens for him, pushing up onto his arms, panting desperately for breath.

Feels good.

"Most- delightful sounds."

It's barely even a sentence, but oh how he means it. He centers his weight, checks Sherlock over very quickly, and starts seeing how he can move.

Each thrust fucks another little noise out of him, like he's screaming silently, but the compression of each thrust forces a bit of air out of the twist in his throat. It's agonizing, and perfect.

It takes a while for him to find his rhythm. Irene would have been yelling at him by now, but he does find it, and he is brutal and steady as a drum when he does.

Sherlock feels like a fever is consuming him. He flushes, twists, and burns, still biting back little sounds of anguished pleasure, riding the swells of pure fear that flutter through him with each thrust that grazes his prostate.

There have been times in the few sexual encounters he's had where he was able to speak. Infrequently, and always sarcastically, yes, but still capable of it.

Not so, now. This modern version of himself is much taller, much stronger, and much tighter than Irene had been. It all combines in a way that leaves him tense and frantic, so deeply pleasured it's hard to keep from just letting his eyes roll back.

Peeking over his shoulder, he sees it, and slumps away again with another stab of discomfort at the sight. It's too raw, stirs too much inside of him. That same feeling he gets when Holmes drives right up against that place- he starts sobbing again, like he had when he'd been struck, still hard as can be.

That-

That, Holmes understands. Because he has reacted the exact same way before. And just as he had learned to do, he keeps going, trying to make it feel so good it keeps Sherlock sobbing.

Hot, warm, hot- better-

"Please!"

That's new, choked out ragged between thrusts.

The fact it's coming from Sherlock makes that word hit hard, and it shakes loose a cry that is just shy of a sob. He leans into Sherlock, thrusting hard now with helpless greed.

He comes with a wrenching sound, slumping into the floor, limp as a ragdoll in his arms.

That's good.

He keeps going, aware of every sound in the room, the obscene slap of his hips against Sherlock's. He doesn't know how long it takes before he finishes--he goes through waves of mindless need and lows of overanalysis before he does. He's aching by the time he comes, and can roll over and lie on the floor.

And orgasm, as always, leaves him feeling somehow removed from himself. Lesser, like one of the crowd, like an animal.

He scrambles away from him, then, helpless and shaken, closing sticky legs and pulling his bad wrist to his chest. His skin is colourful, now, and a mess of dirt and tears on top of the bruises.